


Winter's Winds

by swinganditsgone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Slow Burn, crack ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swinganditsgone/pseuds/swinganditsgone
Summary: A man who has been dead for thousands of years draws his first breaths in the aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell. The future is once more thrown into uncertainty as the Starks and their allies try to determine what to do with the man, and whether or not he poses a threat to them.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't know why I wrote this. For whatever reason after watching 8x03 this idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone until I put it into words. May or may not continue but I've got plans for this story, but we'll see if they happen. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy!

The battle had been over for hours now. And yet, no one had dared move a corpse, lest they risk it rising from its deathly slumber, striking with the intent to kill all it gazed upon. Instead, the men and women within Winterfell’s walls watched and waited. Waited for the morning dawn. Only then could the nightmare be over.

No one had slept for the remainder of the night. Fear pumped through their veins, encasing their racing hearts in a layer of ice, as though they themselves were transforming into a wight to become a part of an army that had, for all intents and purposes, been defeated. Adrenaline kept even the most exhausted awake, breaths labouring as though they were still waiting for their inevitable end. For all they knew, maybe they were. The dead had risen for a second time that night, who was to say they wouldn’t rise afor third? 

It was often stated that many of mankind were afraid of the dark. But the dark itself was not one to strike fear into even the bravest man’s heart; it was the unknown. There was no certainty what lay before one in the darkness of the night. Sight was a profoundly powerful sense that humans relied on greatly, perhaps even more so than any of the others that they held in the armoury that was their bodies. And the human eyesight was very poor once darkness cast its blanket upon the world. One had to then rely on sound, and that could strike in itself its own fear into the minds of men and women, only strengthening the hold the unknown held over them. The hoot of an owl signalled one could be watched, and they would never know it. The howls of wolves seemed to surround men at night, giving them a warning for a possible attack that could lead to their deaths. The snaps of branches, the crunching of snow. The human mind was as much of a weakness as it was a strength in the world.

And so, the people of the North and their allies watched for shapes in the dark that would not come, and they waited for the first rays of light that would bask the snow-covered grounds in a blessing of that of the gods.

Jon Snow, the once proclaimed King in the North, and Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, had assembled what able-bodied men and women they could, and set about assigning each to a group. Each group was then given a task. One group was to search for any wounded, another would be tasked with gathering the dead and burning them. Even with the Night King gone, there was to be no risks taken.

Ryker Tarron had been assigned to the group responsible for finding any wounded and handing them over to Maester Wolkan and Samwell Tarly. With only minor assistance from some of the women, the two men were taking on the momentous duty of helping and looking after all who had been a part of the battle in the ancient castle’s walls. Despite how grim he may have sounded, Ryker was hoping for Tarly’s sake that there were not too many wounded that needed tending to. 

Ryker had just made his way past the security of Winterfell’s stone walls when the bodies began to pile up. For the most part, he had tried to avoided stepping on any of the corpses that had been laying around. The blueish-grey tinge that painted the sky signalled the morning light of winter that many had prayed to come, but it was a small comfort. Somehow, someway, Ryker had managed to survive the battle that night, but he knew that he would never be the same. Blue eyes would forever haunt his memories. The screams that he had heard would never allow him to sleep soundly ever again. He had seen dead men, women, and children slay his fellow Northmen, and he had witnessed them arise again. Now, as he trudged through those that had fallen – some more than once – the persistent smell of sticky blood, stale sweat, rotting flesh, and wet mud and dirt hung in the air like a banner for all to bear witness to. He knew that for the rest of his days, the stench would never leave him. It would forever be his constant companion.

“How did a sorry man like you survive while all these others didn’t?”

Ryker looked up. He stumbled as his right foot fell through a wight’s ribcage. Grimacing, he extracted his foot from the corpse’s body and tried to regain his footing among the remains of the army of the dead and the army of the living. A middle-aged man wearing the colours of House Reed stood to his right, face grim and eyes blank. Dirt caked his face, the remains of a failed attempt at wiping his face of blood lingered in the creases of his skin. Grey hairs speckled his dark beard and hair.

Ryker swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t know,” he replied quietly. “I’m just the son of a farmer. I’m sure there were men much more deserving than me that should still be here.”

At that, the Reed man shook his head, eyes downcast. After a moment, he looked back up. “I’m sure there are. I lost men I called my friends this night. But perhaps they have served the purpose that the gods had given them.” He stepped closer, and for a fleeting moment, Ryker envied the man that he hadn’t stepped clean through a corpse. “You may still be here because the gods have a purpose for you, farmer’s boy.”

And with that, the man turned his heel and went the other way. Several other members of Ryker’s group were spread around that area, searching through the carnage and devastation that had befallen Winterfell’s grounds. They listened for gasping breaths, mournful moans, any sign of a living man that had been spared from meeting death. From what Ryker had heard, a handful of men had been recovered already, and he supposed that he should be grateful. It was much better to have men who cheated the Night King and his forces than to think that the only ones who were spared are the ones still standing and searching.

A gust of wind blew his mud-streaked hair into his eyes, causing him to squint and blink harshly at the sudden onslaught. The wind was cold that morning, but that night he had burned. Unless one had grown up in the North, no one would believe that the cold could burn with just as much ferocity as a fire. It felt like a million needles piercing your skin, even through the thick layers one wore in an effort to stay winter’s hand. It stole the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping for a breath that, at times, would not come. Men and women alike would be resorted to gasping for air, gaping like a fish, drowning on land as though they had been submerged in the Narrow Sea.

Once the wind had passed, Ryker looked towards the open plains before him where the battle had taken place before the dead had breached Winterfell’s walls. The Red Woman had walked that way once everything was done. She had seemingly collapsed into dust and ash in her final moments. Like many who had witnessed the event, including King Jon’s Hand, Ser Davos, Ryker had been transfixed and just as equally unsettled by the spectacle.

He wasn’t sure what had compelled him to make his way to the frozen wasteland, but his feet carried him over the array of corpses in his way. Some were evidently more dead than others. Bones were clearly visible, with some bearing little to almost no skin or clothing. Others were still almost perfectly intact with the exception of blood and wounds that had been placed there only a few mere hours prior. An Unsullied to his left, a Dothraki to his right. Countless Wildlings lay in between.

Suddenly, a sigh, almost indiscernible, came from behind him. Ryker felt his heart clench painfully in his chest before it suddenly began to hammer against his ribcage. He could feel his blood freeze in his veins. Suddenly, the sounds of the morning were lost to him. He could no longer hear the murmurs of men scouring for the living, nor the mumbles of those stacking corpses onto wagons in order to be disposed of. He could hear nothing but the sound of blood rushing through his ears. For several moments he simply stood there, the third son of a farmer who raised cattle, refusing to move. Flashes of unnatural blue eyes flickered through his mind, followed by screams of both the living and the dead. He was alone. The closest man to him had been the solemn Reed soldier, and he was some fifty feet away from him by now, and aside from the small dragonglass dagger tucked away in his belt, he was unarmed.

Finally, with legs feeling as though they were made from lead, Ryker turned around. Grey eyes frantically searched among the corpses, searching for any movement. He prayed to the Old Gods as he shuffled about. Though the sound had come from behind him, it was also taking him to his left, further away from anyone who would be there to try and save him. Arya Stark was said to have killed the Night King. Jon Snow had told them all that once the Night King was dead, all under his rule would follow. The outcome of last night’s events had so far proven to be true. Ryker swallowed, eyes continuing to search the corpses. His hand went for the dagger. But there were no certainties in life.

Then he heard it. Another sigh. He was almost right on top of whatever it was making the noise. The bodies of the dead were thicker this way, piling up upon one another until Ryker figured he was several feet above from the snow-covered ground below. He knelt, sliding the dagger from the leather belt. Once he was sure that he had a secure hold on the obsidian, he began to move the bodies. He pushed at the body of a Wildling woman, her dark hair torn off in places, along with her scalp. A chunk of skin was missing from her face, exposing her jaw and the teeth attached. Eyes were staring up at him. Ryker’s nose scrunched up from the smells that were emanating from the bodies around him, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. Once everything was said and done, he vowed never to step foot near Winterfell again. 

Once the woman was out of the way, a young boy was next. He was much lighter, but the task was just as hard to endure mentally. He was nothing more than a skeleton with skin stretched thin over his fragile bones. Ryker set him aside. The remains of an Unsullied’s face gaped up at him, at Ryker felt himself gag. The man’s helmet had been knocked off, and all that was left of the man’s face was half of his skull and the right half of his jaw, frozen in a scream. He quickly tore his head away, pressing it up against his shoulder, eyes scrunched tight. He grabbed a hold of the man’s dark armour and pulled. The dead weight of a woman and a boy was nothing compared to a full-grown man. He pulled a second time, grunting, and gasped with relief when he felt the body loosen itself from the other remains of the dead.

Eyes still closed, Ryker tossed the body to the side. He knelt there, gasping for breath. He counted to ten, and then opened his eyes. He looked back down from where he had been clearing a path through the bodies and felt his breath catch in his throat.

A young man – perhaps only a few years older than himself – lay there, his torso rising slightly with each shallow breath he took. His hair was dark blonde in colour and short and wavy, curling around his neck and ears, framing his face. His face was long and narrow, a strong aquiline nose resting in the centre of his slack face. Other than some dirt and soot, the man looked relatively clean and out of place, almost as though he had just been placed there, under three corpses. Ryker’s gaze travelled down and away from the man’s face and froze in shock and fright.

The man’s clothing was not that of any Northern man he’d seen, nor did it belong to that of the Dothraki or Unsullied. It was dark armour, and looked ancient. His arms were covered in the dark leather, and the chest plate took on that of a V-shaped pattern, with the spaces in between the thick leather and the shoulder guards taking on a waffle-like etched design. But it was the large pendant in the middle of the man’s neck and chest, seemingly holding the shoulder guards in place, that sent him sprawling back. The top half took on the shape of three quarters of a circle, with the bottom half taking on the shape of a diamond. A symbol was set in the middle of the pendant. 

Ryker had seen that armour before. He had seen that pendant.

He saw electric blue eyes. 

And he screamed.


	2. A King's Trial

For all her times spent at court in King’s Landing under Joffrey and Cersei’s cruel grasp, Sansa found herself growing tired of all the trials that were taking place in Winterfell’s Great Hall. First Littlefinger, then Jamie, and now, this man.

A Northernman had found him laying outside of Winterfell amongst the dead the day before. According to witnesses, the man had nearly lost his mind with fright. He had scrambled and screamed as though he were being tortured, and had fought his hardest to be free of a Crannogman’s hold on him, demanding to know what had happened. All he had been able to do was weep. Several other members of the search party had sent for Jon.

He had immediately sent for the man to be cast in a cell, and heavily guarded.

The wave of relief that had washed over Winterfell and all who sought out its shelter had been covered by an ominous black cloud. Women and children wept, and men had refused to go anywhere near to the castle’s cells, many refusing sleep. All save for Jon, Daenerys, Maester Wolkan, and a very reluctant Sam. Even Sansa herself hadn’t dared to cross over into the darkness that was the man’s prison. She had faced the dead in the crypts, and she was not eager to stare death itself in the face again any time soon. She had shuddered at what Arya must have been thinking, what she was currently going through. But there were very few sights of her sister, and when she did see her, she had not wanted to discuss the matter. Sansa didn’t push her.

But Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell, and she had a duty to herself and her people. They had faced the Night King before, and if Jon and Bran were to be believed, they would be facing him soon again.

Maester Wolkan was a tall man with a larger build than what Maester Luwin had been. The receding hairline left him almost bald, and was white in colour. His beard was short-cropped and well-maintained. His eyes were tired-looking and downcast, and combined with the wrinkles in his aging face, he looked much older than his true age. His black maester robes seemed fitting for the dark mood that had taken hold of Winterfell’s inhabitants once more. But yet, he looked so out of place there, standing in the middle of the Great Hall, facing the Starks and Targaryen and their advisors. His face was pale. He appeared haunted. Sansa felt for the man. Though he had served the Boltons, he had shown no ill will towards her, and had in fact been very gentle and attentive when Ramsay was done with her. He had done all a dutiful maester could do, even helping Bran with his wheelchair. The man had had to deal with Ramsay as much as she, and he was by no means a hard man. 

“Maester Wolkan,” Jon said, nodding in greeting. Wolkan returned the gesture. His movements were slower than usual, almost as though his maester chain was beginning to weigh him down.

“Your grace.”

From the other side of Jon, Sansa could see Daenerys stiffen. Despite the Targaryen woman’s dragons being a critical point in the war, the Northern lords and ladies were still treating her with a cold reception, one that Sansa herself could understand. The North remembers. And the Northerners had declared Jon their king before he had gone after the silver-haired beauty. Even Jon’s biggest supporter, Lady Lyanna Mormont, had not been pleased upon learning that her king had ceded his title and bent the knee.

With Lady Lyanna’s and Ser Jorah’s deaths, House Mormont was now extinct. Sansa lightly bit her lower lip. So many houses had been lost since she had first left Winterfell at the tender age of thirteen. The Northerners had suffered so greatly, even from those they had once called their bannermen. House Stark had suffered relentless blow after blow. Was it so hard to understand that the men and women of the North no longer wished to concern themselves with Southerners and foreign queens?

“What news do you bring of our—” Jon found his voice lost to him, catching in his throat. He cleared it once, his voice coming out raspier than it had been before. “Of our Prisoner?”

If at all possible, the Great Hall fell even quieter. One would be able to hear the sound of a pin dropping in the stillness that followed Jon’s question. Lords and ladies waited with baited breath for the maester’s answer. Battle-hardened men had a look of terror flash over their faces. By now, everyone had heard of the man – if he truly was one – being kept in one of Winterfell’s cells. 

Wolkan swallowed, as though gathering whatever courage he had left to steel himself. “The prisoner is…as well as can be, your grace.”

Jon nodded solemnly. Sansa looked over at him. His face was hard, his eyes appearing haunted, as though he had seen every ghost of a Stark that had walked these halls. For all Sansa knew, perhaps he had.

“Is he fit to stand trial?” Daenerys asked. Her voice was firm and unyielding.

“He is.”

She bobbed her head once. “Send him in.”

Sansa felt herself take a sharp breath. She glanced at Jon, her Tully blue eyes raking over his face. He had been the deciding factor in Jaime Lannister’s trial, going against Daenerys’ wishes. He had faced the Night King, the White Walkers, and the dead more than anyone else in the castle. He would decide this as well. Maester Wolkan turned his pale gaze to Jon, waiting for his answer.

“Aye,” he rasped. “Bring him in.”

Wolkan bowed, stepping to the side. The Great Hall’s doors groaned as the guards stationed there opened them. The shadows of the aged wood drifted across the floor. The dull thud of boots and chains scraping on stone echoed throughout the hall, swallowing the sounds of the Northerners and their allies. Murmurs ceased. Breaths stopped. Not one soul even dared shift from where they sat or stood. It was almost as though time itself had frozen. Sansa felt herself shiver, even with the fire in the hearth and her warm furs.

The guards surrounding the man in question looked spooked, though try as they might to hide the fear that constantly whispered down their backs. One man’s jaw twitched. Another kept glancing at the floor. Those who did not wear gloves bared their hands for all to see, as they tightened their hold on their weapons, knuckles as white as snow. And yet, though the guards in their light armour cut off any path of possible escape, not a single one dared place a hand on the prisoner they were escorting.

Along with many others in the hall, Sansa felt herself holding her breath. She did not know what awaited her. With Joffrey, she had come to expect his punishments. With Ramsay, his wicked ways. Littlefinger’s sharp tongue and clever remarks. She had faced the Stark ancestors come alive in the crypts as the battle had waged on above. She had faced death. She had not faced the lord of death.

Once the guards had reached the front of the Great Hall, they parted. Sansa sharply released the breath she had been holding.

The man that stood before them was tall. He was solid and slender, though his broad shoulders hinted at the strength that he possessed. Despite his colouring, he looked like a Northerner. His hair was light, as were his eyes, though they were not the terrifying blue that Sansa had been taught to be frightened of. He came before them as a proud man; back straight and shoulders back, facing forward with his features schooled into a cool and impassive mask. It as like he was looking at nothing but everything all together, despite his cold eyes gazing at Jon in a way that was as bare and flat as the frozen tundra. Leather, ancient-looking armour adorned him. His hands and feet were shackled, though Sansa wondered if it would be of any benefit to them. This man looked nothing like Sansa had expected, but yet she was not stupid enough to not fear him. He had powers that no one could even fathom. Who was to say that any of them were safe?

For a long while, nothing happened. The audience that had been gathered in the Great Hall moved not an inch, nor made any inclination to do so. The man Jon had hesitantly and remorsefully dubbed the Night King, despite the breaths he took, seemed content to wait for whatever the Lord of Winterfell and the Dragon Queen decided upon.

“Why are you here?” Daenerys voiced. Cold, calculating eyes glanced her way. No answer came.

“Why are you here?” Heat and fire were beginning to enter the Targaryen queen’s voice. Her eyes flashed. Still, the man said nothing. “Answer me!”

Sansa watched her intently. She could no longer look at the impassive man. It was one thing to see men scream like Joffrey had so often done, sneer like the Hound was prone to do, speak spitefully like Cersei, or demurely like Jon had so frequently when growing up. Those were all to be expected. They showed emotion, feeling, even if it was undesired or unbecoming. It was what made people human. Here, this man’s stoic nature was anything but.

“That is not an answer I can give.”

Sansa felt herself fall back into the back of her chair as though she had been struck. Her lips parted in shock. Jon’s eyes widened before leaning forward slightly. The flames in Daenerys’ eyes had dimmed, and she was left speechless, her fire temporarily receding.

His voice was hoarse, as though it was the first time he had spoken in ages. It sounded as though he had been shouting throughout a winter storm, hollering for all who would listen to hear him. But yet it was as quiet and still as him. It was like watching one of the statues in the crypts talk. She shuddered.

“You should be dead,” Jon stated. He sounded lost. Perhaps he was. He had taken the black to protect the realms of men, had fought against the White Walkers for years. He had finally thought that they had won, that the bane of mankind had been defeated for good, only for him to appear again, and stand before them all within Winterfell’s walls. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“Aye.”

No more was said. His response was straightforward and clipped. He did not try to explain. It was often said that the Starks were as cold and harsh as the land they lived in. But this man, he was even more so. He was in and of itself winter.

“You’re the Night King,” Daenerys accused. Cold eyes moved from Jon to rest on her figure.

“I was.”

“Was?” She sounded almost genuinely curious, though one could hear the mocking tone in her voice.

“I would not go so far to say that I am him now.”

“How are we to know that?” Daenerys ground out. “Though you may look different now, you are still the man that raised an army of the dead with the aim of plunging the world into darkness.”

For several moments, nothing was said. Sansa wondered whether the man was done with trying to talk with them. It was frustrating. It was like she was trying to decipher Petyr Baelish’s words and actions all over again, once again resorted to the student trying to learn a game with no rules to follow. She had learned the game of thrones, but had she learned the game of life?

“I will not deny what I have done,” he conceded. “I did what I did, though not of my own will.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she scoffed.

“You don’t know the ways of this land, or the stories of the North, or of its people. Perhaps if you took council from your northern hosts—”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Enough!” Jon exclaimed, causing Sansa to jump at the harsh tone. He rose to his feet. The Night King’s gaze never left Daenerys’ face. “You are here to stand trial, to answer our questions. My sister drove a Valyrian steel blade through you. She watched you die. Your wights and generals fell with you. How is it that you survived, and come before us the way you are now?”

“The Children of the Forest.”

His eyes flashed over the Bran. It seemed now as though everyone was looking upon her brother. He grown and changed so much from when Sansa had last seen him. But while he was still her brother, it was like he was a shadow of himself. He was reserved, closed off from everything around him. He would rarely speak to anyone, and preferred to spend his days amongst the godswood. He had become an enigma, and one that she and the rest of her siblings couldn’t quite comprehend. He called himself the Three-Eyed Raven. And who knew what that entailed.

“They drove a blade of dragonglass in his heart,” he explained, his face and voice void of emotion. “They made the White Walkers.”

“He was always a man,” Sansa murmured. Bran nodded. “But why would the Children of the Forest do something like that?”

“They were at war.”

“With who?”

Bran looked at her. “The First Men.”

“I was created for one purpose,” the Night King rasped. “To destroy the world of men. I failed.”

“That still does not answer why you are here,” Daenerys countered.

“I have already given you my answer,” he retorted. “I do not know why I am still here, the way I was before I was turned.”

Daenerys looked ready to snap back at him, when Bran cut her off. “The Old Gods brought him back.”

“But why?” Jon asked.

“The same reason the Red God brought you back.”

“Melisandre brought me back.”

“The followers of the Red God need to call upon him for their gifts to work. Who is to say the Old Gods have not brought him back to the world of the living for a reason?”

Jon looked cross with Bran’s answer. “He killed hundreds of thousands. He killed a dragon. He brought down the Wall. What jape could the gods be feeding us by bringing him back?”

“He had no choice in the matter,” Bran supplied, sounding indifferent. “They chose him.”

“Everyone has a choice,” Sansa ground out. It sounded as if Bran was trying to defend the man who had been bent on killing him.

At that, he nodded. He then turned his gaze to Jon, looking up at him. “You know what has to be done.”

Jon lowered his eyes, slowly sinking back down into his seat. Everyone watched him expectantly. Sansa waited for his decision. The Northerners had named him King. He was the Lord of Winterfell. He had brought people together to fight their common enemy, despite all their differences, convincing them all to push them aside.

“What are we to do, my lord?” Daenerys challenged, waiting for an answer. For once, Sansa could relate to the Dragon Queen. Here was quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world, seemingly at their mercy. There should have been no question as to what needed to happen.

He looked up. Jon Snow and the Night King stared at one another, unblinking. It was as though they were the only two in the room. Brown eyes met green.

“Who are you?” Jon asked.

For the first time since he had been brought inside Winterfell’s stone walls, surrounded by those who had sworn to kill him, the man’s stony façade cracked. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together in a way that reminded Jon of the late Stannis Baratheon. His fingers clenched.

“Dorin Stark.”


	3. A Family Matter

“How could you?” Sansa asked the moment the four of them were alone.

It had been almost pandemonium in the Great Hall upon Jon’s announcement. Everyone present had loudly exclaimed their protest at the decision on what was to be done with the Night King – Dorin Stark, if he was to be believed. For a long while, Jon had simply said nothing, merely observing the man who stood in front of him, awaiting his fate. Loud whispers had travelled across the hall as the men and women tried to comprehend what to do with such a proclamation. Daenerys herself had almost looked as though she herself had been burned, something Sansa had been told was nigh impossible for the Dragon Queen. Sansa herself had felt the breath leave her lungs at the man’s words. A part of her simply refused to believe in such a thing. It couldn’t be true. The Night King, the prophesized end of mankind as they knew, was a Stark himself? Had anyone else their family known, or had it been a dark secret of the thousand-year-old bloodline that had been vowed never to be shared or spoken of in fear?

Finally, Jon had spoken. “For now, he is to remain alive. He will spend his days in a cell, forever guarded.”

Sansa had felt her blood thin at Jon’s words. Fury danced in Daenerys’ eyes. Outrage rang among the Great Hall, voices booming off of the stone walls. Everyone had wanted blood spilt upon the man’s dark deeds, and that had not received it. Ever one to help defend Jon’s actions from him meeting the same fate as Robb had, Sansa herself could not comprehend Jon’s decision. She felt as though her brother had spoken a foreign tongue. For what his words meant, perhaps it was. However, Jon had quieted his storming lords and ladies with a few sharp words on how his decision was not final, and that they had more pressing matter to attend to, such as honouring those that had fallen. With that, everyone was dismissed. The guards who had escorted the man – Dorin – had once again surrounded him and led him from the room. There almost appeared to be a shadow of surprise on his face upon Jon’s decision, yet his face never wavered from that of cold indifference. Sansa, seemingly having gained her bearings, had quickly and breathlessly requested that her siblings join her privately in order to discuss the matter. The hall had cleared, including Daenerys and her advisors, leaving only the four of them behind.

“Sansa, we do not know yet what we are dealing with,” Jon reasoned. “We thought Arya had killed him before. We thought we knew how to defeat him before. Yet here he is. How am I to know that I can kill him for certain?”

“Bran said the Old Gods had brought him back.” Arya looked from Jon to Bran, her brow furrowed in confusion. 

“He is to have a greater purpose,” he said slowly.

“He said he failed at his purpose,” Sansa replied, recalling his chilled tone. “We destroyed him and his army.”

“Did we?” Jon asked gravelly. “We thought that the First Men had defeated him, and yet Bran the Builder order the construction of the Wall and the formation of the Night’s Watch.”

“And we’re certain he is truly the Night King?” Arya asked. “That he truly is a Stark?”

Sansa sighed, shaking her head slightly, glancing down at her feet. “I don’t recall ever learning of a Dorin Stark in our teachings.”

At that, Jon softly scoffed. “If it is true, could you ever imagine why not? A Stark, the one said to bring the end of man. Is it any wonder why he was never spoken of or written about?”

“And yet you still allowed him to live,” Sansa pressed. She could not forget the meaning of this meeting. She could not simply sit back and not question her brother’s intentions. “He’s killed hundreds of thousands. He’s admitted to it. You’ve made many unhappy with your decision.”

A pained expression washed over his face. “I’ve killed so many men.”

“He’s killed more! Innocent men, women, and children. Saying he had no say over the matter does not dismiss his crimes or his guilt.”

“These are hard and trying times,” Bran expressed. “We have killed men who have harmed our family, we have spared men who have harmed our family. The war against Cersei will be a trying one. Perhaps he will turn the tide in our favour.”

Sansa sighed, closing her eyes. It was all so very confusing. Yet, as she had learned, politics almost always was. It was a lesson that Littlefinger had taught her throughout the years, but had also hoped that she may never truly grasp it in the same capacity as himself. She had no love for the man that had driven a stake through her family and the realm, but she could not disregard how vital his lessons had been. There would always be a game at play, with every man, woman, and child playing a vital role in that game. But this was something new that they were playing with. A man who should very well be dead, who was to be the enemy of every living creature in Westeros.

“I may not know exactly what it is you see, Bran,” Arya said lowly, looking at Bran with the devotion that only a sibling could hold. “I may not ever truly know what the Three-Eyed Raven is, or how exactly you are able to know the things that you know. But you are my brother, and I trust you.”

“I still do not trust him,” Sansa expressed. Though her words were spoken softly, the weight they held brought everyone down. “I never will.”

“No one is asking you to,” Jon assured. “There may still be a way to defeat the Night King once and for all.”

Sansa glanced over to Bran. He was staring a her intently, though there was no sign of any emotion in his dark eyes. She tried to push away the unease that his gaze unleashed from within her. I felt like a coil wrapping and tightening itself in her stomach. She had always loved her younger brother, and would always continue to do so, no matter what happened, but it was so surreal to see the young man that he had become. She remembered him always climbing the towers and ramparts of the ancient castle. He had been so carefree and full of spirit back then. He had changed so much since then. Now, he was measured and collected. Not for the first time, she wondered at what her brother had had to endure throughout the years that had made him into what he was. He seemed so much wiser than his seventeen years.

“We should continue to oversee the recover efforts,” Jon said solemnly. “Would you like to go anywhere, Bran?”

He blinked. “The godswood would be nice.”

“I’ll take him,” Arya told them as Sansa and Jon both stepped forward to grasp his chair. “I have lots to think about as well.”

With that, Jon nodded at her. Sansa hung back with her older brother as Arya led Bran away from the Great Hall. He motioned for her to follow, and Sansa sent him a small smile, ducking her head. 

Jon, as with many others, had made an effort to clean himself up after the battle. Maester Wolkan had already seen to what injuries he had sustained from the battle, though only after he had insisted that the maester see to those more grievously wounded than himself first. In the end, he and Arya had come out of the battle with mere scratches and bruises. Bran was unharmed. For that, Sansa had been thankful. Her family had come out of what was possibly the greatest battle anyone had ever faced in thousands of years relatively unscathed – mostly. She felt her heart sink at the thought of Theon. 

He had been raised alongside her and her siblings, her father showing more kindness towards him than what was required of a lord and his ward. He had treated him like he was one of his own. He had been one of Robb’s greatest friends. His betrayal against the Starks had been a blow that in itself had felt like a blade which had been plunged in between their shoulder blades. The horrors that he had faced from Ramsay’s hands were payment enough for having her think that he had killed her younger brothers, and she would always be thankful for him rescuing her from the bone-chilling terrors that Winterfell had become under Ramsay’s rule. He had returned to Winterfell to fight the dead, had stayed with Bran to the very end during the battle, giving his life up for the boy that he felt he could never repay. For what it was worth, she considered Theon her brother and her family as much as her siblings had.

“They say the pyres should be ready for later today,” Jon told her as they strode down Winterfell’s halls.

Sansa nodded once, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over Theon’s memory. “Preparations for the feast are wrapping up as well.”

“Sansa.” Jon paused, turning to face her. “The feast is not necessary, the stores—”

“There will be plenty enough for us to celebrate for a night,” Sansa assured him, smiling softly at his concern. After a moment, she frowned. “We lost many in the war, Jon.”

“Aye, we did,” he rasped. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“This feast is for those we have lost as much as it is for those who are living. We defeated the White Walkers. We have protected the realms of men. They need this Jon, more than I think you know.”

He took a few moments to process her words. Finally, he nodded. What looked akin to pride flashed in his dark eyes. “Would you like to come with me? To oversee the final arrangements for the funerals?”

For a second, Sansa almost found herself agreeing to. But just as quickly, a flash of silver hair and light eyes entered her mind, and she found herself hesitating. Where Jon was, Daenerys was not far behind as of late. In fact, since their arrival from the south, it was a rare occurrence to see one and the other not with them. Sansa was still unsure of how to feel about the Targaryen woman. She did not hate her – that right was reserved for Cersei. However, she made her feel uneasy. As did Jon’s relationship with her. The Northerners had declared him their king, and he had returned with a foreign lover of whom he had bent the knee to. It did not sit well amongst their people. Robb had loved a foreign girl as well, she thought with dread. She did want her brother to be happy, truly. But she did not know their ways, and it seemed as though she had little intentions of doing so. To her, it was all seven kingdoms, or else they would face retribution.

“Thank you, but no,” Sansa replied. She didn’t miss the way Jon’s brow furrowed in concern. “I have other matters to see to first. You will let me know when the ceremony is ready if I am not finished?”

Jon nodded. “Of course. But please, Sansa, take Lady Brienne with you.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s Ser Brienne now,” she said, smiling.

A rare grin lit up Jon’s face. 

“Ser Brienne of Tarth. Much has changed.” He strode over to Sansa, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I will see you soon.”

Sansa watched him as he took his leave. His dark cloak, the one that she had made for him prior to the war against Ramsay, billowed behind him, dancing across the stone floor with a whisper. The fur that ran across his shoulders broadened them, and for a moment, Sansa felt as though she was looking at her father as he strode away. Memories of her childhood flooded her, recalling the countless times that she had watched her father traipse around Winterfell, seeing to his lordly duties. 

And as she was so oft to do when she was a stupid young girl, she disobeyed the men in her life’s wishes.

With a renewed purpose, Sansa made her way down the hall before taking a right with no intentions of requesting Brienne’s company. She had spent years away from her home when she had left for King’s Landing at the tender age of three and ten. She had not been permitted to go anywhere without Ramsay’s permission when Littlefinger had sold her tot the Boltons. Once they had retaken the castle, Sansa had taken the time to reacquaint herself with that of her childhood home. She had explored the halls and corridors that she had travelled through, the rooms that she had hid in as a young girl. And so, she found herself striding towards Winterfell’s cells determinedly.

The closer she got to her destination, the colder it became. It snapped at her skin, nipped at her heels. It was almost as though the ancient home of the Starks knew what the man who was being held within it was. That he deserved no warmth. No kindness. She wondered if her house words could be directed at their own, or if he was the reason for their formation in the first place.

Upon her arrival, she found that Jon had stayed true to his word. Several guards were lined up along the hallway, armed with both regular steel as well as dragonglass. One guard took note of her arrival. He was a tall man, though he was thickly built, with broad shoulders that were only enhanced through the light armour he wore. His hair was a dark brown, almost appearing black, and was short. He had a thick beard, not unlike that of a northern man. Grey eyes matched her gaze.

“My lady,” he greeted, though he sounded hesitant. His greeting announced the other guards of her presence, and all straightened to their full heights, their backs ramrod straight. 

“I’m here to see the prisoner,” she told them, nodding once to herself at her words. She tried to fight back against the anxiety and worry that gripped her heart like a vice.

One of the guards shifted. “You shouldn’t be here, m’lady,” his northern accent rang out. “It’s not safe.”

“There are many things in this world that are not,” Sansa said, smiling at the man’s concern as she approached the occupied cell. “I merely wanted to make sure that things were settled before this evening. I would also like a word with him.”  
The guards glanced nervously between themselves. One of them looked as though he was little more than a boy. Fine wisps of light-coloured hair speckled across his jawline in patchy work. His face was smooth like that of Bran’s, not as weathered or aged like those around him.

“My lady,” the first man spoke. “I’m not so sure that that’s a good idea—”

“I assure you that I will be fine,” Sansa lied. However, her next words rang true. “Besides, I have you here should anything happen.”

She could practically feel the nervous energy coming off of them in waves, and she struggled to contain her own. But the Stark guards were nothing if not loyal to those they served under, and so they let her through. An older man whose hair was more grey than black now produced a key from a pocket in his belt and moved towards the cell door. The metal clanged and clapped as the key turned in its hole. The door screeched in protest as it was slowly held open. The man nodded once towards Sansa, and with her heart drumming in her ears, she stepped forward and looked through the cell at the man within.

A worn bench was placed along the wall directly across from the cell door, and straw mattress thrown against the wall to Sansa’s right. The only other source of light in the cells aside from the lit torches was through a small, thin, rectangular barred window that was too high up for any man to see through. Inside, it was cold and damp. Old, moldy straw was scattered across the floor, along with dirt and gods knew what else. But all Sansa had eyes for was the stone-faced man sitting in front of her, hands and feet still shackled.

“This is a surprise,” he murmured.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. She had to remain composed, in control. It was what was expected of a lady. And yet, visiting prisoners unattended for was not ladylike behaviour, either. If what Jon and Arya said of him was true, then she knew that no matter how hard the guards fought, they would be dead before their bodies even hit the floor. She steeled herself with the form that she had spent much of her life trying to perfect. It had saved her so many times before, but she very much doubted that it would save her now.

“I do not agree with my brother’s decision,” she told him soundly.

He leaned back slightly. “You and many others, my lady. I am inclined to agree with you all.”

That brought her up short. “Why?”

“As the former Lord Commander had stated during my trial, I have killed many during my time as the Night King—”

“You are the Night King,” she snapped.

“Not anymore,” he insisted. His voice washed over her like a winter storm. “Curious though, that you came down here on your own.”

She bristled. “I do not need constant protection like many believe.”

He smirked. It was a frightening sight, and Sansa felt her breath quicken. He had only ever had an expressionless mask. To see anything else on his long, narrow face was as out of place as seeing Daenerys’ dragons flying in the north. 

“The wolf has fangs,” he mused.

“I am not here to talk about me,” she insisted, voice hardening. She had been manipulated and goaded her whole life. She would not allow a man back from the dead to do the same.

“Then what are you here to talk about, my lady? Certainly, you could be doing more in regards to giving those that I had so senselessly murdered a proper funeral than going out of your way to see a dead man.”

“You have no right to speak of them, not after what you have done.”

“Do you think that I enjoyed what I was tasked with doing? I took no pride in killing all of those men and women and children. We do not get to choose the fate the gods give us.”

“Many men go beyond the fate chosen for them,” she argued.

He tilted his head forward. “The Greyjoy.”

Sansa felt herself still at his words. However, he took no pity on her sudden state. As he had proven as the Night King, he was like the winter, and had no mercy for those he encountered, no matter who they were.

“He was a brave man,” he continued softly, like thick snowflakes landing one’s tongue. “He was a good man, your brother told him.”

“You don’t deserve to speak of him,” Sansa fumed wetly. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes, threatening to spring forward. Her voice quaked so slightly than only the most trained ear could pick it up. Her core tightened, and she struggled not to tighten her hands into fists in an effort to try and abate her tears.

“If you came here to try and make me confess to enjoying the end of those lives, Lady Sansa, then you will find yourself sorely disappointed.” His fingers twitched. Sansa felt her blood be encrusted in ice at the motion, unsure of what he would do. Instead, the sandy-haired man remained seated. “The old gods have lost my favour because of what they had made me, despite them seemingly giving me a second chance at a life I was denied. However, you would be wise to remember that you are not the only wolf here.”  
Sansa’s lips were parted in fear of the man, feeling intimidated in spite of herself. Green eyes met blue, and Sansa felt herself remembering the last pair of green eyes she had grown to distrust. Joffrey’s golden curls and wormy lips popped into her mind. However, where Joffrey’s eyes had been vivacious, Dorin’s were a cool, mossy colour with lighter flecks within the irises. She would not let another pair of green eyes have the satisfaction of seeing her fright, even if she was truly and wholeheartedly. She closed her mouth, straightened her back, trying to achieve the perfect posture expected of a highborn lady. She turned on her heel, nodded to each of the guards in appreciation for their duty, and escaped from the chilling hands of Winterfell’s cells. She heard the guards shut the door, flinching at the resounding bang it made as it locked back into place on its hinges. Loud whispers could be heard as she escaped back into one of the corridors that had led her there in the first place. She was not finished with Dorin Stark. She imagined she was not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This has gotten more attention than I ever thought that it would! Thank you all so much!


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